John Doe
by Simon920
Summary: An unknown admission to Rabe Memorial Hospital.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: none, probably

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**John Doe**

The first thing he was aware of was the pain; it centered in and on the entire top of his head and encompassed his entire being, radiating down to his neck, his shoulders and wiped out any possible feeling he might have had in any other part of his body. It obliterated everything, it surrounded him, filled him and erased anything else.

He was pain. Pain was him.

There was nothing else and he welcomed the return of darkness and oblivion.

* * *

The pain was still there but this time he managed to put his hand up to see if there was some way to stop it, to shut it off. His fingers found what he dimly thought was wet, sticky hair. The effort was too much and he slipped back into darkness.

* * *

He opened his eyes, waited for the pain of that movement to lessen and tried to see anything, see if he could figure out where he was or why or—anything.

He couldn't, there was just darkness but by concentrating he slowly became aware of hardness under his cheek; pavement. And stench; garbage. He was lying on pavement, he was hurt, probably badly hurt and no one knew he was here or, if they did, didn't care.

Trying to push his thoughts further, why he was here and for how long, how he'd been hurt—it was too much and he was grateful for the darkness again.

* * *

An unknown amount of time later he tried again. His head still radiated agony but by gritting his teeth both figuratively and in fact, he found he could push it far enough away to know he needed help.

He was badly injured and he needed to get himself help because—maybe—no one knew were he was. Or maybe no one cared.

He had to get his own help because if he didn't there was a chance that he might die.

Forcing his eyes opened, he tried to really look around and get some kind of bearings; his first and most obvious observation was that it was dark, meaning that he was in a building or something. Or maybe it was night. Or both. It wasn't much but it was a start.

He awkwardly moved one arm and then the other, positioning them so that he could try to pull himself upright. Slowly and with the pain causing him to suck in his breath and stop to regroup every few seconds, he raised his chest off the ground, managing to sit upright, leaning against what turned out to be a couple of stacked milk crates. Breathing hard, he tried again to figure out where he was.

It seemed to be an alley of some kind, a narrow alley, the kind where a business might get deliveries and put out their garbage in one of the dumpsters lining one wall. There was a back door with a single light bulb shining over it, giving both harsh and dim light.

He was alone.

He heard vague traffic and city sounds; a distant siren, a plane overhead.

He had no idea where he was.

With great effort he puled himself to his feet, taking long minutes to gain his balance, then tentatively moved toward the end of the alley where he could see the glow of a streetlight. If there was a streetlight there might be people and people might help him.

He needed help badly.

He didn't know ow long it took him to reach the sidewalk; minutes, hours? The pain erased time but finally he was there, exhausted and still bleeding. He sank to the sidewalk, back against a building and hoped that either help would arrive or he'd die.

* * *

Bright lights, too bright. White walls and white curtains sliding on screeching tracks. People in vari-colored scrubs probing him, asking questions, bothering him, refusing to leave him alone. A needle was inserted in the vein on the back of his hand, his clothes were cut off him.

"Can you hear me? Open your eyes for me, all right? Can you open your eyes?"

"Any response?"

"Not yet."

* * *

"Squeeze my hand, sweetheart. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Good, that's good. Now, can you open your eyes? I'm right here, could you look at me?"

"The radiology report just came in, 'bad concussion but 'doesn't look like there's any internal bleeding and no sign of fracture."

He'd wanted help so badly, now he wanted to just be left alone.

"''Looks like he really pissed off someone. Any contact information?"

"No ID, no wallet. Admit him as John Doe number twelve and move him upstairs as soon as they have a bed for him."

"'Another charity case?"

"'Looks like unless we get lucky and he was just mugged—'might have insurance."

"If we're lucky."

* * *

The pain was still there but seemed fuzzy and less distinct, like it was in the distance and he was terrified that it would come back full-force if he moved or opened his eyes or breathed. He was in a bed, he could feel it beneath him and he could tell that he was in a hospital; he'd heard the pages calling various doctors and odd bells pinging in some secret sequence he didn't understand. He was aware of people walking back and forth, probably in a hallway nearby, some of the people were pushing carts or beds or maybe wheelchairs. There were voices but he couldn't understand what they were saying and no one seemed to be talking to him so he didn't care.

He wished the pain would stop so he could think but he was so tired it probably didn't make any difference.

He slept some more.

* * *

"Good morning, sweetheart, are you going to open your eyes for me?"

He slitted his eyes, immediately closing them against the too bright light until he heard a blind being closed and sensed less glare.

"There, that should help, now can you open your eyes for me?"

Doing so he looked at the woman, probably a nurse wearing a stethoscope around her neck and a name tag on a lanyard. She was Nancy Brightman, RN.

"There you are—and you have the most wonderful blue eyes, you shouldn't keep them hidden all the time! Just give me a moment to check your vitals and then I have some breakfast for you and we cam have a little talk, all right?" She took his temperature, listened to his heart and shined a flashlight into his eyes, asking him to follow the light. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital?"

She nodded. "Do you know why?"

"My head?"

"Were you in an accident?"

"I..."

She went on, noticing but unruffled. "Can you tell me our name?"

"I'm, my name is...my name is..." Nothing. He was blank.

Calmly, she went on, her voice conversational. "Can you tell me what year this is?"

"2005?"

"Who's president?"

"...Clinton?"

"What's your birth date?"

"I..." He was lost.

"It's all right, you've had a hard hit on the head, it will come back."

"When?" The man looked frightened, a normal reaction.

"Soon, usually in bits and pieces but it will come back. Do you know how you got here?"

"This hospital? I was, it hurt, I was hurt. I knew I needed help so I—I—I went out to the street and I guess, I think someone found me. Am I going to be all right?"

"You'll be fine." She took the cover off his breakfast tray. "You must be hungry, 'eggs?"

"No, thanks."

"Doctor says you need to eat and it will help you get your strength back--'heal the body, heal the mind'."

The man picked up his fork and began to eat.

* * *

_Name: Doe, John #7_

_DOB: Unknown_

_Address: Unknown_

_Phone: Unknown_

_SS#: Unknown_

_Insurance: Unknown_

_Emergency Contact: Unknown_

Reading through the new John Doe's chart the attending physician stopped and reread the second page listing obvious previous injuries and possible medical complications; numerous scars from what appeared to be burns, ligatures, possible knives or other sharp objects, two apparently healed bullet wounds, evidence of several previous concussions. Whoever this guy was, he needed to think about changing his lifestyle.

With any luck they'd get a missing persons report or a call from a frantic family member or friend hoping against hope that this was their missing son/brother/husband/other. That's what usually happened and then they'd be able to fill in the blanks. Otherwise he'd go like the others did, he'd get well enough to release and walk out the door, bill unpaid.

Time would tell but the doctor thought that he'd just disappear in a day or two. 'Good chance Mr. Doe just needed a paid vacation from something. It happened all the time.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**  
Part Two**

Between the start of healing and legal drugs the pain began to recede and that left room for the fear to move to the front. When the nurse asked him who he was he'd tried. He'd tried again when she asked how he'd gotten hurt and when she'd asked him if he could remember his birthday, who was sitting in the White House and whether or not he could tell her what year it was.

The panic, barely controlled, started when he saw the look on her face at his answers and knowing he'd gotten them wrong.

He didn't know his own name.

He didn't know how he'd gotten hurt or how he'd ended up in the hospital.

He didn't know the name of the facility.

He didn't know if he had anyone waiting for him, worrying.

He didn't know where he lived, if he lived alone, if he was married.

He didn't know how he'd gotten the calluses on his hands.

He didn't know his own age.

He didn't even know what his face looked like.

He didn't know where he lived or if he owned a dog.

He didn't know.

And not knowing was terrifying. It was like being in a nightmare he couldn't wake up from, the kind where you scream and no one notices.

The nurse, Nancy according to her ID tag, said he didn't have a wallet on him when he'd been brought in and his injuries were consistent with his being beaten as opposed to him being in, say, a car accident. She didn't really know, but it seemed likely that he'd been mugged, robbed and left. It happened, she said. She didn't have to say that he could have been beaten because of involvement in a crime of some kind—on either end, criminal or victim— gone bad or at the hands of a jealous husband.

"Don't try so hard to remember, you can't force it. Look around, talk, watch TV, listen to the radio and read newspapers and magazines; something may trigger a memory. And your family is probably looking for you, you might be on the news or reported to the police as a missing person. This is temporary, just try not to be frightened because that won't help."

The volunteer who wheeled the cart with books and magazines gave him that morning's paper; The Bludhaven Bugle. He was in Bludhaven and the patient's right sign on the wall of his double room told him that he was in Rabe Memorial. It wasn't much but it was a start.

There was a whiter stripe of skin on his left wrist so his watch was probably stolen.

He didn't have any tattoos, or none that he'd found.

He didn't seem to be having any drug withdrawal problems. That was good. Of course, he was high from the pain meds, so that didn't mean anything.

He turned on the wall mounted TV and watched the local news but didn't hear any mention of him being missing. There was no mention of a missing person in the paper, either, aside from a teenaged girl who'd probably run away with her boyfriend.

He went into the small bathroom, turned on the light and stared at the stranger in the mirror. He was average height, maybe five foot nine or ten. Dark, straightish shortish hair, blue eyes which were partially obscured by the bruising and black eyes. His jawline seemed strong but was swollen so it was hard to tell. His nose looked like it might have been broken and healed at some point. His build was pretty good and it looked like he might work out with some regularity. His skin was neither pale nor dark, though he was white/Caucasian with something vaguely ethnic about him, though it wasn't anything obvious. He looked like he was early twenties and he looked like he was pretty healthy, aside from having the shit beaten out of him. He seemed well nourished and all of that.

Then he let the hospital gown fall and—holy crap—what kind of life had he led? The scars, almost to many to take in and they scared him almost as much as waking up with no memory; slashes, bullet scars (and how did he know what _they_ looked like?), burns and Christ knew what all. Jesus.

Shaken more than he had been five minutes ago, he replaced the gown and lay back down on the bed.

Nothing seemed familiar. He picked up the phone and dialed, hoping that subconscious memory would let him automatically find a relevant number. It didn't.

The headache, pushed into the background by meds came back and he had to fight to stop tears of frustration.

He ate lunch; there was nothing wrong with his appetite.

"That's a good sign, it means your body knows it needs nutrition and is healing itself. Would you like more?"

He nodded and the nurse brought him another tray of food which he ate and then slept.

Then he started to dream.

There were crowds, surreal lights and sounds below and around him, air flying past him as he jumped, feeling exhilaration and pure joy before he lost control and fell, spinning and tumbling into the water hundreds of feet below him. He felt the coldness close over his head and struggled to reach the surface, grasping for the helping hands reaching out to him but missing as they receded away into darkness and knew he was going to die.

Jerking awake, he tried a zen technique to get his breathing and heart rate under control (_where the hell did that come from?)_, swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood shakily then removed his clothes from the small closet. Two minutes later he was walking into the elevator and pushing the button for the ground floor. Out on the sidewalk he blinked at the bright glare of a sunny day and, at random, turned left at the corner.

He walked twenty blocks before his injury and concussion caught up with him and forced him to sit on the park bench, grateful for the fact that it was shaded by a sickly city tree and hoping he wouldn't pass out.

"Are you all right?"

He looked up.

"You don't look so good, 'you okay?"

He didn't answer, not sure what to say and the stranger moved on after another try without response.

It had to have been something bad for him to be beaten this badly. He had to have done something bad for someone to do this to him.

His mind wasn't as clear as he wanted but he knew whatever had brought him to this meant that someone had wanted him either dead or injured enough to get the message they were sending and all he could come up with that made any sense was some kind of crime gone wrong; a robbery, a drug deal gone bad, money owed and not repaid—who knew?

The more he thought, the more he realized that he couldn't go to the police because he was probably wanted for some serious shit and he really didn't think he could handle jail right now.

And how did he know that he couldn't handle jail? There was only one answer that made any sense, because he'd been in one before and some part of his brain knew.

He was on his own.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**  
Part Three**

Shoulders hunched and eyes down he made his way to the park, glancing at the entrance sign with three letters missing ELVILE__ARK. Melville Park, somehow he knew that, he must live around here, he must be a local and he had expected the locals, the druggies obviously either looking for a score or on a high to greet him by name with an offer.

Or maybe, anyway.

Then he'd at least know his name. Unless he'd just read the park's name somewhere. Maybe he'd gone to school around here. Maybe he worked here. Maybe he had a girlfriend who lived in the neighborhood.

Maybe he was a returnee from an UFO abduction. Crap, who knew?

Reluctantly he accepted the simple fact that he was probably some kind of criminal because nothing else added up. He'd been beaten, he'd been robbed (no wallet, no ID) and if he'd been an innocent victim then someone would be looking for him. Innocent people had families and friends who worried and called the police if one of their own went missing.

His name probably didn't really matter all that much because no one had the scars he did without being in deep shit more than anyone who had a normal life would. He could have been in a bad car wreck, sure, but those scars? They'd been acquired over years, not in just one or two bad days. He hung with violence and that's how he'd gotten hurt.

Sitting on a bench in the sun he suddenly smiled. Maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe he was a war hero from, from—let's say he was in Iraq for (what the hell) three tours and he was a frigging war hero. Hell, he'd probably taken down half the Taliban single-handedly, been captured and survived six months f torture to protect the whereabouts of his entire covert company of Rangers, escaped by the skin of his teeth and walked out across the damn desert.

Shit—he probably had a drawer full of medals and was on the short ,list for the goddamned Medal of Honor. He'd be meeting the Joint Chiefs, let them hang the damn thing around his neck—if only he could remember where he'd put the damn invitation.

Right, that was the ticket. He was a hero. People should be walking up to him in the street just to shake his hand.

Yeah, right. He had hero written all over him, it was just writ small.

Laughing to himself before he sobered, he made an effort and pushed the panic to the back burner and sorted out what he really knew—not much—versus what he didn't. He might not be a genius, but he thought he was pretty smart, but doesn't everyone think that about themselves?

Okay, he knew squat about his stats—no name, no address, no memories about school or friends or a job.

He knew somehow he'd ended up in some scummy alley in Bludhaven with the crap beaten out of himself.

His clothes were pretty generic; worn Levi's, a light blue Hanes tee-shirt with nothing written on it. He was wearing a basic pair of white Nike's, stuff that could belong to anyone. No watch, no jewelry...and no tan lines indicating that they'd been stolen or lost.

It was almost as if he was trying to be anonymous.

Of course he had no idea what might have been in his wallet, assuming that he had a wallet.

He leaned back and looked at the people nearby; a family eating ice cream, the twin toddlers laughing at the dripping chocolate, their parents taking pictures. An old man walking slowly with a footed cane, a couple of girls, maybe high school aged, looking at him and giggling, a young couple holding hands as they strolled, kids tossing a Frisbee and skateboarding.

He should check a computer, see if there were any missing people reports on the Internet.

Shit—that seemed like a good idea but where did that come from? Maybe he'd gone missing before. Maybe this was normal for him.

He was still sitting there, the shadows were growing as he realized that he was getting hungry and he knew he had no money to buy food. Getting up he walked over to a couple sharing a large pretzel on the next bench.

"I'm sorry to bother you but could you spare a dollar or two so I could eat?"

The young couple exchanged a look, the man stood up, holding his girlfriend's hand and pulled her away. "Get a job, loser." They disappeared around a corner.

He went over to a woman sitting with a book, her free hand holding a woman's magazine. "Excuse me, but do you have any spare change?"

Annoyed, she handed him a quarter, put the magazine into the stroller and left quickly without speaking to him.

It was starting toward dusk and the park was emptying as people went home to dinner. The temperatures dropped without the sun. Standing by the main exit he asked more people, speaking softly, politely and thanking the very few people who handed him a few coins. His total take was two dollars and twelve cents in an hour. Sighing, he jaywalked across the street to McDonald's, bought himself a burger and a cup of coffee from the value menu, eating slowly so he could stretch the warmth of being inside a bit longer.

He didn't have a jacket.

After an hour the manager came over. "Okay, if you're not eating you can't stay here, buddy. You have to move along." The guy seemed almost apologetic.

He did as asked without protest, knowing there was no point.

Walking aimlessly along the emptying streets, hands stuffed in his front jeans pockets, he wondered where a homeless shelter might be and had a thought that he would be opening himself to another assault if he went to one, assuming he could find one that had an empty cot. Those places were notorious for violence, the stronger picking on the weaker and with his injuries he was a small fish to be eaten.

And his headache, in the background all day, was back with a vengeance.

Maybe he could get himself arrested for the night. If he got drunk enough he could...no, liquor cost money so that was a non-starter.

Screw it.

Making his way down a residential side street, he started trying car doors, finding an unlocked one after about three blocks of trying. Opening the back door he climbed in, lay down on the back seat and closed the door as quietly as he could, hoping that the owner was in for the night and he could sleep here undisturbed until morning.

"Buddy. Hey in there, c'mon, wake up."

He struggled to open his eyes. It was dark, he was cold and stiff from sleeping curled up on the bench seat. There was a cop knocking on the window.

"C'mon, outta the car."

He did as he was told.

"You got ID? That ain't your car, I'm gonna hafta run you in."

"I, uh, I think I misplaced my wallet."

"Sure 'ya did. Someone worked 'ya over, din't they? Okay, come with me." The cop didn't look like a bad guy, just a Joe doing his job, getting the bums off the street so the honest citizens wouldn't be hurt.

He sat up, not quite awake and suddenly close to tears; this wasn't the way he lived, this wasn't the way it was supposed to be but he couldn't explain and..he got out of the car. "'Sorry."

"C'mon, I'll take you to the shelter, you can warm up, get somethin' to eat."

"No, thanks, I'm okay."

The cop was looking at him, staring at his face in the bad street lighting."What's your name, buddy?"

"..."

"You look familiar, you been in trouble before?"

"No, uh, no. I never..."

"Yeah, I've seen you before. C'mon, we're gonna take a ride down to the station."

He took off at a dead run, rounding the corner and ducking behind another car, crouched down when the policeman came looking. He stayed still, didn't move, didn't breathe, just stayed low. He heard the cop walking back and forth, down the street and back again then heard the muttered ''Screw it" as the footsteps disappeared.

He stood up. It was cold, maybe forty or forty-five degrees, too cold to sleep. Looking for an all night coffee shop or something, he moved off, finally ending up at the bus terminal. The security guys made him move every half hour or so, but it was warm and that was a lot.

Around five in the morning with the first commuters starting to trickle in, hurrying to wherever they had to be, a social worker found him sitting on the stone floor, his back against the wall, his butt on a scavaged newspaper. She put a paper cup of hot chocolate and a greasy fast food breakfast sandwich beside him. "Eat this and then come with me; you look like you could use a friend."

He was hungry, tired, stiff and felt like crap—any port in a storm, right? He had nothing to lose.

* * *

"He's not answering his phone; bastard stood us up."

A shrug. "You know him, 'probably just busy."

"Yeah, c'mon, let's go—he must have gotten a better offer."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

"When you're done eating you can go through there and get cleaned up. There's a shower and a new toothbrush and razor in the cabinet by the sink and you'll find clean clothes in the closet, then we can talk, all right?"

He nodded, chewing, trying to ignore the throbbing that was splitting his head into pieces and wishing like hell that he had some of those pain killers they were giving him in the hospital.

He let the hot water run until it grew cool and was back out with the woman in twenty minutes, seated in the visitor's chair on the other side of her desk. She was maybe late-thirties and no-nonsense. There was something vaguely familiar about her but he wasn't sure why. He has an impression of someone, a woman who was older but with the same manner but it as gone almost as soon as it flashed in his mind, leaving him depressed.

"What should I call you?"

He was stumped for a moment then, "John."

"Hello John, I'm Rose. Could you tell me how you wound up sleeping in the bus terminal? Were you going to catch a bus or were you newly arrived?"

"I was cold."

She nodded, unfazed. "Fair enough. Did your parents or wife or someone throw you out? Are you in trouble?"

He looked around nervously, unsure what to say. "I, I think I, I might have been mugged."

She regarded him for a long moment. "You're not sure? Were you maybe mugged by your supplier?"

"What?"

"'You owed him money and he took it out in trade?"

"I..." He looked lost.

She nodded, satisfied with that answer. "You're in pain?"

"A little."

"That's normal when you go cold turkey. Have you been in rehab before?"

"Rehab?"

Rose seemed to be getting annoyed. "What do you use, heroin, meth? Don't jerk me around—I've been doing this longer than you have and I promise you I'm not nearly as fucked up as you are. You want me to help you? Fine. Now what do you use?"

"'Don't know."

Pause as she considered. He didn't act like the usual junkie, he seemed frightened about something, though that could have just been that he was worried about his next fix. "Who beat you up?"

"I don't know. I sort of woke up, came to in an alley and then I was in a hospital. They said I had a concussion—that may be where the pain—why my head hurts."

"Which hospital? And don't lie because I'm going to check." Junkies always lie.

"Rabe."

Picking up the phone, she dialed a memorized number. "Fred? Run a quick check for me, will you? John..." She looked across the desk.

"Doe."

A moment for a hard look. "John Doe, early twenties, Caucasian, admitted in the last couple of days and sitting in front of me now. Might be an assault victim. I need to know if he's using...I know it's against the law to tell me—fuck that...okay. Okay. Good. Thanks and I owe you. Okay, I owe you again and tell Mary I said hello."

"What did he say?"

"You're blood work was clean so you're either not a user or you were clean long enough to pass a blood test. You were admitted day before yesterday with a severe concussion and amnesia. You were treated and disappeared yesterday ADO."

"ADO?"

"Against doctor's orders."

"Oh." He shifted in his chair. "Now what?"

"Now we try to see where you came from and why you had the crap beaten out of you. Have you ever been in a shelter or half-way house?" All she got was a blank look. "Well, you're about to be. I'll do what I can to see that you're in one of the better ones and tell them your story so they can look out after you. I'm also going to send you to be checked out at a clinic top make sure that you're all right to be out of the hospital. I assume that you don't have any insurance?"

"I..."

"Of course." She picked up the phone, hit a number on speed dial and spoke without preamble. "I'm sending you another customer, John Doe. He decided to walk out of Rabe after a beating and seems to have no memory...I know, don't they all. Just see what you can find, see if he's okay to be out and if he is send him on to Henry House, otherwise readmit him. Thanks, Gina."

She filled out a form while he sat quietly for a few minutes. "If I put you in a cab will you go where I s end you and cooperate, let the doctors look you over and do what they tell you to?"

"Yes." Just one word, flat and without emotion.

Rose weighed his demeanor and he seemed like he was a fish out of water. Maybe he really had been mugged and left, maybe he wasn't a user and maybe he had a family or somebody waiting for him to call or walk through the door. He wasn't the usual kind she saw, this one had some polish under the dirt and confusion and his hair—it had been cut by someone who didn't work in a strip mall. Anyone could be born handsome, but this one didn't belong in an alley; she was sure of that. If he was younger, if he were fifteen or so she'd have just thought he was a runaway but not at his age.

He didn't fit the usual profile of the people who usually ended up with her. This one was a little different.

* * *

"Lisa, I'm going to rounds, call me if there's anything you can't handle. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Okay, Dr. Thompkins, 'later."

Ten minutes later the cab pulled up to the clinic and John Doe got out, holding a folder with a few papers from Rose for the staff. He gave them to the receptionist and took a seat to wait as he was told. An hour and a half later he was called into an examining room where his particulars were taken, he was given a complete workup by one of the physician's assistants and then declared reasonably healthy aside from the after effects of a severe concussion and being generally stressed. His blood pressure was a bit elevated and he was still suffering from amnesia.

He was prescribed painkillers and told he needed to come back in a week or immediately if he experienced any double vision, dizziness or nausea.

Following Rose's directions, he walked the five blocks to the halfway house she'd arranged for him to have a bed.

Two hours later, after two emergencies, Dr. Thompkins returned to the clinic. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Good, let me review the charts , please and then you might as well go home." Sitting at her desk in the small, cluttered office, she read through them; Lisa was right, nothing unusual, just the run of the mill pregnancies, sick children whose parents couldn't afford or didn't believe in inoculations and a sprinkling of beating victims, knife wounds and sprains. The only case that even vaguely stood out was the amnesiac, simply because they were uncommon. Oh, patients pretending to having memory problems came in now and then, but a genuine case was always interesting but there wasn't anything she could do unless he came back and she could examine him herself.

Glancing up she saw that it was after nine PM, she was hungry and tired, there were no patients waiting and so she left early.

There was something about that patient that had stayed with her; there wasn't really anything unusual about the client himself for a clinic like this, just another young man down on his luck from the looks of things. He'd either been on the wrong end of a drug deal or was in the wrong place at the wrong time—same thing, when you came down to it.

With any luck he'd recover without any complications, but unless he took care of himself there was no guarantee.

And the amnesia thing, that could be...well, if he ran true to form they would probably never see him again.

She wished him well.

* * *

"Anybody hear from him?"

"You know how he is, he's probably just working a case, he'll check in when he's free. Let's order—Chinese okay with everybody?" He reached behind him to get the take-out menus.

"You're just taking advantage of him not being here to not eat pizza."

"Y'know, you'd think that will all the money he had, dude would be a little more upscale in his food tastes."

"Pizza, corn dogs and funnel cake; comfort food."

"_And _he still has a six-pack, the bastard."

* * *

He was laying in the too soft mattress which was making his back ache, listening to the snoring coming from the next bed. His memory was still gone and, try as he might, the best he could do were brief flashes of half formed images or phrases which disappeared as soon as they floated through his mind. There was some part of his brain which found this so frightening, so terrifying, that he came to the conscious conclusion that this was, in fact, not happening. He was dreaming and the fleeting thought of a man who had some connection to either oil or TV (or both) in a shower being a dream made him smile, though he wasn't sure why. Oh yeah, it was from old TV show. Stupid.

That had to be what was happening; one of those nightmares where you know you're dreaming but you can't wake yourself up.

It was the only thing that made sense and the only way he could understand what was going on—if it wasn't real than maybe he hadn't been beaten, maybe he had people who cared about him and would be looking for him if he went missing.

Flashes of what might have been memory came and went all day; a large, well tended lawn, an impression of enclosed dark coupled with a feeling of cold and dank, a half memory of an English accent telling him to wake up, the sound of fabric flapping in wind—a flag? A coat? A tent flap? He didn't know.

The calluses on his hand, if he could remember where he got them and why, maybe that would be the key. He'd have a clue about his job, maybe a hobby. It could be the key.

His head still hurt, though not as much and the painkillers weren't as needed as they were a couple of days ago. His face was still a mess, swollen and bruised. Maybe when it healed and he knew what he really looked like, maybe that would help.

He fought the panic rising again.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

"Shut up, willya? 'Trying to sleep here, Jackass."

The thrown pillow him smack in the face, jerking him out of the nightmare and into a sitting position on the narrow bed. Ignoring his roommate, he did his best to remember the dream he'd just been pulled out of. In it he was swinging, hanging from his hands, he could feel the hard bar he was hanging from and remember how happy it made him feel. He could feel the air rushing past him, could feel his clothing move with him. It wasn't just a swing set it was, it was—high up. He was high up and he was swinging and he could hear people below him, a crowd of them.

It was an audience, a large audience watching him swing and he, he was letting go of the bar, throwing his body, letting his body be thrown by inertia combined with his own movements and felt the snap in his shoulders as his hands slapped into someone's hands. Someone, a man, had caught him and was smiling at him and he was smiling back, proud of what he'd done, heard applause from the crowd but the cheers stopped, transformed into screams and then he was on the ground looking at two broken people, bleeding on the ground.

Looking up he saw one of the bars hanging from only one rope, still swaying above them.

The people, they were—he knew them. They were, he knew who they were, they were—his parents.

He knew who they were and now he knew how his hands, the hands that were shaking now, had gotten callused. He worked in a circus and his parents were the people dead on the ground.

He shook his head. Jesus, stupid dream and where the hell did _that _come from? 'Probably something subconscious, a childhood fantasy to explain his hands, a romantic answer for something pedestrian.

Laying down, he went back to restless sleep.

* * *

Early Monday morning the garbage men were making their rounds, cleaning up after other people, cleaning up after the entire city. Normally they didn't bother to really look at what they were tossing into the truck but once in a while..."Check this."

"Wha?"

"A wallet."

He opened it up; good quality, newish and empty aside from a couple of the usual snapshots of family and friends. There was some more stuff laying around the wallet, stuff that had probably spilled out or been pulled out by whoever stole the thing 'cause it had to have been stolen then dumped. Reaching inside the dumpster _(gross)_, he pulled out the cards and papers. A current AAA card, a registration for a motorcycle (a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14, no less), an insurance card for the bike, a health insurance card and an emergency contact card with no name, just a phone number in a different area code. They all had the same name, Richard J Grayson. Poor sap, having your wallet stolen was a pain in the ass, all those cards and stuff to replace.

"Any money?"

"Nah, no credit cards, either."

"C'mon, we hafta ta get movin'."

He tossed the wallet and the rest back into the dumpster and pushed the buttons which would empty it into the truck. By tonight it would all be in a landfill.

* * *

"Hey, man where's the new barkeep? He poured a bigger two fingers than you do, 'ya cheap bastard."

"And tried to drive me to the poor house while he was at it. He's just off for a couple of days, something about a family problem."

"Yeah, when you see him tell him that the department is recruiting again in a couple of weeks; didn't he say something about wanting to be a cop?"

"He mentioned it but that don't mean nuthin'. Talk is talk."

Later, at one AM, closing time, he sat down in the office and decided to see what, if anything, was on the security tape. Grayson hadn't shown up for a week now and something about that didn't sit right. The kid had been dependable, more so than the usual drifters who came through the place and didn't seem like the type to just take a hike but there you go. You just never knew about people.

The tape played in the background while he cooked the books, a black and white flickering image of nothing except a back alley used for deliveries and trash and nothing else. Checking the date and time on the tape, it was last Tuesday, the night the kid closed up the bar for him, the last night he'd been at work.

At about the fifteenth hour mark (played at four times regular speed and skipping an hour here and there) he saw the kid go out the back door with a couple cartons of empties for the recycling. He was bent over to put them down when another figure moved into camera sight, both men moving jerkily because of the fast forward. Hitting a button, he slowed the tape down to real speed, saw Grayson get slammed on the head by something—a pipe, maybe a tire iron—and go down like a ton of bricks. His wallet was lifted from a back pocket, emptied of money and credit cards and tossed in the trash then the thief disappeared, leaving Grayson still out for the count.

He hadn't still been back there Wednesday morning when he'd gone in to open up, he was sure of it. Grayson must have woken up and got himself home or someplace. And if he could move under his own power he had to be okay, right?

'Just another fly by night kid, looking to pocket a few bucks and then move on.

It happened.

Strange, though. He was usually pretty good at reading people; you had to be in this business and he hadn't pegged Grayson for pulling that kind of crap.

* * *

He was sitting in the social worker's office, the man explaining what would probably happen to him. "You have to understand, you've suffered a severe concussion and the problems that you're experiencing are simply part and parcel of what's happened. You may have problems for anywhere from three months or so up to a year."

The young man, the bruises starting to change colors as they slowly healed and the swelling went down. "But there has to be something someone can do. Are there any meds which could help?"

"For the pain, sure, for regaining your memory? Well, no. There are a few things which are experimental; lot's of research going on with an aging population and tons of people with Alzheimer's and dementia but a cure? Not yet."

He was frustrated, still confused and disoriented. He was also frightened; if he was a druggie or a dealer paying the price of a bad deal he wanted to know that but he had a gut feeling that just wasn't the case. He didn't feel like an addict, he didn't have any withdrawal symptoms and if he was a dealer, well, okay but he still wanted to know it so he could figure out how and why he was who he was.

"So what can we do, what can _I _do to regain my memory and my life?"

"Keep you eyes opened, look at everything, everyone, read anything you can get your hands on, watch the news, movies—anything could jog your memory. Usually what happens in this kind of case is that something will happen, you'll meet a person, see a picture or something and that will bring it back for you."

"But..."

"It could be anything and I don't what it will be any more than you do at this point because neither of us knows who you were, who you are."

"So what am I suppose to do while I wait for the clouds to part?"

"You can stay here for up to four weeks. Sorry, but those are the rules. When you're feeling better you might want to think about picking up some kind of job to bring in some money and it may well be the key to your memory. If you get back out there, interact with people, see what you have natural ability in, see what comes easily to you it could be something you used to do."

"That makes sense." He seemed more resigned than hopeful.

"Is there anything that you might enjoy, John?"

He gave a small shrug. "I guess I'll see." Standing he held out his hand. "Thanks."

"'You still need the pain meds?"

"Not really, no."

"How are you sleeping?"

"'You know..."

The social worker had heard that one before. "Dreams? Pay attention to them, they may be trying to tell you something."

* * *

Bruce went into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, surprised to find Alfred standing by the phone with an odd look in his face. "Problem?"

"I shouldn't think so, but I've been attempting to get a hold of Master Dick for two days now and he's yet to return my calls."

Taking a mug from the cabinet Bruce seemed unimpressed. "He's probably just busy or out with the Titans."

"I just left a message with Miss Donna and she told me that she hasn't seen hide nor hair of the lad in three weeks and I find it difficult to believe that tending bar is that all-encompassing."

The obvious was left unstated. "I'll see what he's up to."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**  
Part Six**

"He hasn't shown up for work in over a week. No one's heard from him, he's not on any cases that anyone knows about and he's not on a vacation unless it's a secret one he hasn't told anyone about. I even checked the hospitals in both Gotham and Bludhaven and no one's seen either Dick Grayson or Nightwing."

"That's not like him, he's so anal he'd show up early for his own funeral."

Wally looked at Roy, confused. "But..."

"Never mind."

Donna turned back to the boys, it was still raining outside and she'd been watching the drops against the window. "I spoke with Alfred last night and he said they haven't heard from him in a week or so either. He tried to pass it off as nothing but he was worried."

"Dick goes off on his own sometimes."

"I know, but he always makes sure that Alfred has a number for him or something, just in case. I really think that something may be wrong." She'd made a decision. "Without Dick here, I'm leader and I want us to find him."

"Ah, c'mon." Roy was clearly unimpressed by the other's concern. "You know he's probably fine and so when we find him, he'll be incredibly pissed in that controlled way he has. Give the guy a few days off, willya?"

He received a hard look for his efforts. "You do whatever you want but I'm going to find him—jerk. Wally?"

"Whatever you want, I'm there."

"Roy, you're such an—oh, never mind."

"Hey, kidding. Donna, I'm with you, you know that. I love the guy like a brother. He's fine, I swear. Hey, wait up..."

* * *

It was their regular three PM appointment, trying to assess where John Doe was in germs of his recovery. Physically he seemed to be making amazing progress, as far as his memory, not so much."I want to get a job, maybe something will jog my memory if I'm out and working instead of sitting around here."

The social worker nodded. "'Good idea, any thoughts about what kind of thing you're looking for."

"No." He had a hundred ideas, but no clue which one to go with so he opted for the short answer.

"Tell you what, John, why don't you try to get something in a place where you'd have to do a lot of different things, that way maybe something will seem familiar or come easier to you."

"'Like maybe I've done whatever it is before? Okay, sounds good, any ideas?"

"Your hands are callused, so you've probably done something manual for a living. How about some kind of construction, see where that takes you? 'You think you're up to it, feel well enough?"

"I think so, I'll give it a try, anyway." He'd try standing on his head if it would help.

Thanks to the social worker calling in a favor, he started two days later on a construction site over by the Moore Housing project, a low income place mostly populated by druggies, derelicts, deviants and rodents. The building they were supposed to be renovating was dirty inside and out, plus it smelled like boiled cabbage and stale urine. The only people they saw who weren't scary or pathetic were a few parents trying to get themselves and their kids out of the place and a few youngsters who hung around the workmen, hoping for a free soda or maybe to pick up some spare change for running some errands.

He was there for three days and somehow it seemed familiar, which he found depressing. It wasn't that he recognized the building itself, it was more that he seemed to have been in places like it too many times and it reinforced his fear that he was a regular in the projects.

The work wasn't hard, at last not mentally, but it wasn't something he seemed to have any knowledge of. Though he could use a sledge hammer, it wasn't comfortable to him, nor was a jack hammer or the bolt cutters.

Whatever he'd done, it probably wasn't this.

This was getting him nowhere and he was transferred to the main office for paper work, which he left after two days of misfiling and bad typing. He wasn't surprised and was relieved when he was told to move on.

By the end of the week he was ready to try something else and the social worker arranged for janitorial work at a local high school. There was something about this which seemed to reach him and, as he swept the floors and emptied the waste baskets, he realized that it wasn't the school itself or the work, it was being around youngsters, listening to them, and watching them.

That drew him up short and he wondered if he was a dealer who targeted schools. God, he'd hate if that was the answer.

And that didn't explain his hands.

Next he was moved to a car repair garage, fixing transmissions and replacing mufflers. He seemed to have some aptitude for this and knew what he was doing, which was encouraging and he was happy for the first time since waking up in the hospital. He liked making broken things work again, liked the feel of being able to take a piece of machinery and make it hum and liked the feel of oil on his hands and dirt under his fingernails. Clearly he was comfortable with the blue collar side of things and he'd done this before.

Maybe this was it, maybe he'd been an auto mechanic. It would make some sense and it was something he wasn't ashamed of. This was good.

"Hey, Johnnie—you get the fan belt on the Buick changed yet?"

"Just finished, you want me to swap out that carburetor on the Volvo?"

"Take lunch first then, yeah. Good work, kid."

Smiling, he felt like he was home—or on the way.

* * *

"Find anything?" The three Titans were comparing notes, Donna taking the lead.

"Maybe. The last time anyone saw him was when he was finishing his shift at Hogan's almost two weeks ago. Hank Hogan said Dick closed up for him and then didn't show up for his shift the next day and hasn't called in or anything since then. No word, nothing."

"Has Hogan tried to call him, see why he's not there?"

"He just said it happens all the time with bar workers so, no."

Wally made a face. "But that's not like Dick, you know how he is about things and he's like the walking definition of a work ethic. 'You think that maybe he was called in to work some case no one knows about?"

"Like what, genius?" Roy was less than impressed by Wally's suggestion. "If he was working with the JL or the US Government or Interpol of the friggin' Fantastic Four, c'mon—like _we_ couldn't find out? I _really _think they'd tell us."

"Well sure, probably, but what if it's top secret or something?"

Donna was, as ever, tactful. "He'd have told Bruce, no matter what. It's one of their unbreakable rules; they always tell each other what case they're on, just to have back up if it's needed. Always, no exceptions."

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Keep looking. What's happening with checking the hospital admittance records?"

"Nothing at any of the Gotham or tri-state hospitals. The computers at Rabe are still down and they don't expect to have them fixed for at least another week. No computer, no records and they don't have hard copies for anything that came in during the last month."

"Incredible, how does that place stay open?"

* * *

It had been a long day and John Doe was tired, relaxing after a dinner of boxed mac and cheese at the rehab place. He was stretched out on the old recliner, not watching the game show and skimming through an old issue of Time magazine while his mind wandered. His plans for the evening were to veg for a while, take the hottest shower he could and then hit the sack. He found that he was liking the auto mechanics, had clearly done this kind of work before and enjoyed it but there was something in the back of him mind which made him think that, while this may have been a hobby or even his job, there was more and this wasn't all he did.

He hoped like hell the missing puzzle piece wasn't his being a dealer. He really didn't want that to be the answer and if it was, well, he just wouldn't do it anymore.

The articles didn't interest; the economy, heath care, another politician caught cheating on his wife, global warming. Same old, same old. There was an essay about Superman, something about how he represented a white knight for everyone on the planet, always there when needed, always stalwart, brave and true, always honest and blah, blah, blah. There was a picture of him, a photo taken on a sunny day with his features strong and clearly defined, set in a warm smile.

Idly he thought that he was a handsome man, maybe a little over-developed muscle-wise, but still a striking and charismatic personality. From all reports he was a nice man, one on one and John idly wondered if his wife, if Lois, had noticed that he seemed to have a new smile line by the outer corner of his left eye.

He stopped breathing for a long count of seconds, the magazine in his hands. How the hell did he know the name of Superman's—no, _Clark's_—wife?

Superman's real name, his secret identity name was Clark and no one was ever to supposed to know that for security reasons.

_His friends called him Clark._

_His name was Clark and he was married to Lois._

Holy fuck.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**  
Part Seven**

John Doe stood in the shower until the hot water ran out. He had a clue, a real one, a good one, a strong one and now he had to figure out what the hell to do with it.

Obviously call Clark...Kent and ask if he could see him. Clark Kent. Superman was Clark Kent and somehow he knew that he'd met him somewhere, that they were maybe friends or something and that this would be the key.

Or maybe Superman had busted him for selling drugs. Maybe that was where they'd met.

First he had to find out who Clark Kent was because that puzzle piece wasn't there. Maybe someone could tell him but then there would be questions about why he wanted to know and if no one was supposed to know the secret—no, he had to do this on his own.

First things first. It was late, the house was shutting down for the night and he would be locked in until seven tomorrow morning.

He lay in the narrow bed, his mind racing, trying to think, to remember how and why he knew Superman _(Superman!). _Maybe he'd been arrested once or twice but that didn't explain how he knew about Clark Kent. There was some kind of connection and he had to find it. He _would _find it.

This was it. This was the key. He was sure.

* * *

Donna was obsessed with finding Dick; everything they'd tried had led to dead ends and she was worried. "Come on, there has to be something we've overlooked, there has to be. We've missed something, he can't just disappear."

"Yes, he could. If Dick wanted to be alone for some reason, no one would be able to find him. He'll come out when he's ready and until then we're wasting our time."

"No. If he wanted to get away he still would have told someone, he'd have told Alfred so he wouldn't worry and even if he forgot, Bruce can find anyone. Something's happened to him."

Roy wouldn't admit it but he was as worried as she was. She was right. Dick wouldn't just pull something like this and even if there'd been some emergency he would have taken five seconds to turn on his GPS so he could be tracked. Something had happened and it was probably something bad. "Okay, fine, let's go over everything again from the beginning; he went to work at that bar..."

* * *

Using the computer in the Human Resources office, John googled 'Clark Kent' the next morning, stunned to have over two hundred thousand hits returned. The man had started as a reporter at the Daily Planet but now he was working as a TV news reporter, a talking head who also seemed to do some real investigative reporting and who had earned a few major journalism awards over the years. He was high profile and any moron could see that he was a dead ringer for Superman if you took his glasses off.

A close-up look at a couple of pictures made it obvious that the glasses were either the weakest ever prescribed or fakes; he voted for the latter.

Okay, now he just had to get a hold of the man, find out why they knew each other well enough for him to know what had to be one of his most closely held secrets and then, well then he could take it from there.

* * *

"Mr. Kent, there's a call for you on line three. He called himself John Doe and says he knows you."

Clark didn't look up from the piece for tonight's broadcast that was in mid-edit and behind schedule. John Doe? C'mon. "I don't have time for this, please just take a message, Lynn."

* * *

Later that night Clark was putting in time at regularly scheduled monitor shift up in the JLA satellite. He was idly listening to the chatter between the various heroes active that evening, just keeping tabs on things. Mostly the messages were to and from the Titans, talking about Dick who seemed to have gone missing.

He liked Dick, always had and he respected the young man. He flicked a switch.

"Batman, may I offer assistance in locating Nightwing?"

"It's under control. Out."

Typical of Bruce. Of course it was under control, everything was always under control—maybe that was why Dick had decided to go missing. It seemed that hos friends were stumped as to where or why he'd gone or even if the disappearance was voluntary or not. Dick Grayson was a kidnap target and had been since the moment he moved into Wayne Manor. In addition, Robin, later Nightwing were on the wanted list of every known criminal in the civilized world and a few who didn't limit themselves to just the civilized side of things.

If he really had gone missing, if he wasn't just sitting on a beach someplace with his phone turned off then he needed to be found and quickly. Evidently no one had heard from him in two weeks.

A lot could have happened and it could already be too late. He sent messages to every JL member, asking if anyone had any information regarding Nightwing's current whereabouts; the answers all came in negative and so now Superman decided to get on the case.

* * *

In his private quarters Alfred was running yet another computer search in hopes of uncovering anything which might help find the young master.

No one admitted to any of the local hospitals in either Gotham of Bludhaven with his description in the last two weeks. No one arrested by any of the local police fit his particulars. No ransom notes. No contact with any of his friends. No one at his apartment house had seen him. He wasn't working on any cases that anyone was aware of. While he wasn't currently involved with any young ladies, a short-lived tryst was always possible; the boy had been raised by Bruce Wayne, after all. His job wasn't one to take him away. He wasn't estranged from master Bruce at the moment, certainly not enough to cause all of this fuss and concern.

He'd simply disappeared, seemingly without a trace.

* * *

John tried to get in contact with Clark Kent again the next day, calling his office several times and e-mailing the network, using their website help-line. He also left another message with a different secretary again, stressing that it was important. He never received answers from any of his contact attempts.

Calling again the next day he was politely told that Mr. Kent was overseas on assignment and wouldn't be back in the country for the rest of the week.

Googling Clark Kent again he made another search and found that the 'Lois' he remembered from his dream was probably Kent's wife, reporter Lois Lane. Calling the Daily Planet he was put through to her office and to his surprise; "Lois Lane, yes?"

"Uh, Ms. Lane, I'm a—friend—of your husband's and I was hoping that he, or maybe you, might be able to help me."

"Who is this?"

"I'm, I'm not sure."

"Excuse me?" He could hear her talking to someone in the background; "I said I wanted to interview the Secretary of State herself, not her assistant. Tell them that I can guarantee her five minutes on the national broadcast." Then, "You don't know who you are? When you find out call me back ad then we'll both know."

"NO! Please don't hang up. You don't understand. I know who your husband is—I know where he's from and what he does when he's not being a reporter."

"Excuse me?"

"I know him, or, I mean, he knows me and I need his help." There was a pause on the line and Lois thought she heard what sounded like a shaky breath, as though the man on the other end was trying to calm himself enough to speak. Then, "Please. This is the only clue I have."

He sounded desperate, like he was at the end of his rope and didn't have any place else to turn. She couldn't just hang up in case he really did know something and wasn't just another nut latching onto Clark Kent, national face of the news every night. "..All right but he's not here. I'll have to call him; can you hold on while I use the other line?"

"Yes, I can hold on."

She pressed the hold button and pulled the communicator out of her pocket. "Clark?..."

A few seconds later she took the young man off of hold. "I just spoke to him and he said that he'll do what he can. Where are you?"

John gave her the address of the rehab center. "I could meet him in Melville Park. About a hundred yards inside the main entrance, there's a bench behind a big oak tree—it's kind of hidden."

"I'll tell him, just wait there."

"Thank you." He sounded hollow, like he was exhausted, frightened and hopeful all rolled into one.

"Good luck, be careful." She hung up, Clark would be there in a minute and see what was really going on here. Whoever he was, he seemed like he needed...

She stopped mid-thought. Oh my god, that's who that was, it sounded exactly like him unless it was his twin or something. She pressed the communicator again. "Clark, I don't know what's going on but you have to get there, something's wrong."

"I'm there, I see him waiting for me but I'll let you know what's going on."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Part Eight**

He was sitting there in civilian clothing so Clark, also in his civvies, smiled and said a friendly "Hello, Dick, good to see you again. Is everything all right?" as he sat on the other end of the bench.

"You called me Dick."

Odd. "Are you going by Richard now?"

"No, no, that's not what I mean; you know my name."

"And you know mine. Some of your friends have been worried about you, you haven't been answering you calls, is there a problem?"

Dick, Richard, whatever he was using now stared out towards the open filed of the park, kids playing, couples walking. "But you know me, right? I mean, you know who I am, where I live—all of that stuff?"

Clark nodded and noticed that the man's hands were shaking and his eyes were close to watering. Something, the simple fact that Clark knew him and could identify him was hitting him hard. "What's going on?" Clark's voice was quiet and kind.

"I..." He paused. "I, I don't know." Another pause while he swallowed. "I don;t know who I am or where I came from, what I do for a living, who my family is or where I live. I don't know any of it."

Clark realized that, whatever it was that happened to Dick, he was barely holding on by his fingernails and that he needed to go slow with him, follow his lead and let him set the pace. "Tell me what you can. We'll work on this together, all right?"

"You'll help?" He looked like drowning man seeing a ship approach, hopeful but afraid of being passed by and left to die.

"You know I will. I've always been there for you, ever since you were—(something told him that he couldn't go where he wanted to just yet)—since you were a youngster. Start with the beginning; how did you know how to contact me?"

Dick gave him a frightened look. "Are you mad I called?"

"You did the right thing, I want to help you just like I've always wanted but I need to know what's going on. Will you tell me?"

He seemed to take a long, deep mental breath and started speaking, soft and quiet but without pause or hesitation. "Two and a half weeks ago I woke up in the hospital. I didn't know my name—I still don't. I don't know how I got there or how I got hurt, but I was hit in the head or fell or something and whatever happened caused a bad concussion. I have amnesia, the doctors say I do, but yesterday I had a dream—the social worker at the rehab told me to pay attention to my dreams—and I remembered your face and that I called you 'Clark'. Then I saw your face in a magazine with your name in the caption and googled you, that's how I knew who you were and I remembered that your wife's name in my dream was 'Lois'. I called a couple of times but your secretary wouldn't put me through so I called your wife at her work."

Clark let him talk, didn't interrupt and slowly the story of the last few weeks came out. Beyond the actual events, Clark saw over and over, how terrified the man was, how adrift and how much he desperately needed to find his way back.

* * *

"Master Bruce, come quickly, Master Superman wishes to speak with you, he's found Master Richard!"

Batman pressed a button on his computer console, speaking without preamble. "Where is he and is he all right?"

"Hello, Bruce. I just spoke with him, he's in Bludhaven and no, he's not all right. He suffered a head injury and has severe amnesia. He's confused, frightened and needs to let his memory come back naturally, without pressure."

"I'll get him, is he in his apartment?"

"He's in a rehab center, working with social workers and a psychologist and I think that would be a mistake. He needs to be introduced gently to people and places he used to know or he'll become upset."

There was a minimal pause. "How much does he know about his 'other' life?"

"Nothing. He has no recall of his name, his profession, his background; none of it. He's like he's in a void right now."

"I see. Thank you. Out."

"Bruce, I think it would be better if..." The line was dead. "Idiot."

* * *

Clark stayed with him through the afternoon, listening to what he said, trying to empathize with how terrifying it was not to know the most basic details of your own life. Finally, as dusk was falling, he escorted Dick back to the rehab, asking for and receiving a meeting with the head of the facility.

They shook hands and the man offered Clark the guest chair on the near side of the desk."First of all, Mr. Kent, I want to thank you for identifying our patient. With that basic stumbling block out of the way, he should, with any luck, be able to piece things back together—with help, of course." He sipped his coffee. "Do you have any questions I may be able to help you with?"

"Do you feel that Richard could be safely released to the care of his family at this point?"

"You don't beat around the bush, do you? May I ask how you know him and are you a member of his family?"

"I'm a friend of the family and I've known him since he was a child. I flatter myself that he thinks of me as something of an uncle to him." If it would help get the man to open up he'd use anything he had.

"But you're not an actual family member?"

"Well, no."

"I'm afraid that, by law, I'm unable to discuss the particulars of his case. It's to protect his privacy, I'm sure you understand." He shuffled some papers on his desk. "But I'd appreciate any help you could give us about our patient. You know his real name and have contact information for his family?"

Clark hesitated but then didn't feel like he had a choice; Dick did have a family who were worried about him, besides, Bruce was probably on his way over right now. "His name is Richard John Grayson and he's the adopted son of Bruce Wayne. He's been tending bar here in Bludhaven while he waits to take the tests for BPD."

"Bruce Wayne?" Clark nodded. "Would you have his contact information?"

"May I? I've already informed him that I thought I knew where his son is and I'm sure he's waiting for my call." He gestured towards the man's phone,picked up the receiver and dialed the Manor. "Alfred? It's Clark Kent. Is he available? I have more information about Dick." There was a wait while the phone was transferred. "Mr. Wayne? Clark Kent here, I've seen your son and have his doctor with me. Just a moment."

"Mr. Wayne?..."

The arrangements were made in less than a minute; Wayne would be there to pick up his son within the hour, no press, please.

* * *

The initial meeting was tense. Dick was nervous, Bruce was strained, though he wouldn't admit it and Alfred was anxious about his charge's condition. To his credit Bruce was quiet with Dick, non-threatening and kind. Though his manner seemed to reassure him, Dick didn't recognize any of the men as people he knew and when told he could be released into their care seemed to accept it with reservations.

"If I want, would it be possible for me to come back here?" In a real way the rehab facility was the only home he knew and he seemed to have a fear of the unknown.

"It's been almost four weeks, Richard and you know that's the limit for any of our clients to stay here. I'm sorry. I think it would be good for you to go with them now, give it time, continue to see your doctors and then, if you want I can arrange another home for you." The social worker held out his hand to Dick. Who took it with what may have been some sadness.

"Can Mr. Kent come, too?"

"I'll visit whenever you want, but you're going home, Dick, it's for the best but if you want me, I'm always there for you. You know you can call me whenever you want; I promise."

The young man ignored the pressed lips and hidden anger in Wayne's face as he turned to the social worker with a small smile. "Thank you for, you know, for everything."

"Good luck, son. You'll be fine, you'll see."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Part Nine**

The drive back to Wayne Manor was tense, quiet and heavy with all the things no one was saying.

"I'd like our own doctor take a look at you if that's all right with you."

"Sure."

"I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry so I thought you could decide if you felt like dinner this evening, Master Richard. The kitchen is at your complete disposal.

"Thank you." Pause. "Could you please not call me 'Master'? It's a little archaicly class system."

"As you wish, sir."

They stopped at the main gate, Alfred pushing the dashboard button to let them pass. Dick turned his head to watch them close behind them but didn't say anything. They drove along, slowly navigating the three mile long driveway, goin g past the lawns, small lake, stables, outbuildings, tennis court and finally pulling up to the front door. He looked up at the huge house as though seeing it for the first time.

"Is any of this familiar?"

"No."

"Perhaps you might like to change into some of your own clothing, you may be more comfortable."

"All right." He looked around the foyer.

"It's up the stairs, third door on the right."

"Thank you...?"

"Alfred."

He nodded and headed over to the stairs, his hand resting lightly on the bannister he delighted in sliding down as a child, as though feeling the polished wood for the first time. In the bedroom, which he discovered was a large suite with, in addition to the bedroom itself included a sitting room, walk in closet and full bath along with a walk-in closet larger than the room he was sharing at rehab. It was furnished with obviously old and somewhat heavy furniture, a state of the art media center with a window wall and balcony which overlooked the outside pool and acres of lawn.

He found a pair of jeans and a black sweater then spent long minutes studying the room's personal contents, things which were supposedly his but which he had no memory of ever seeing. There were large framed circus posters on the wall featuring the Flying Graysons and which he assumed referred to his family since he'd been told his last name was Grayson. There was a photo on the bed stand which looked like a younger version of himself smiling with two adults, presumably his parents. They all looked happy and he wished he could remember them, they seemed like they were—are?—nice people.

If his name was Grayson, why did he live with the man he'd met today, Bruce Wayne? Did Superman say he'd been adopted? He wasn't sure. So, his parents were dead? Or was 'adopted' a euphemism for something else? Were he and Wayne lovers?

And who was Alfred, an employee, a relative?

Next he moved over to the large bookshelf, curious as to what books he liked enough to keep close at hand. Whatever he was, he wasn't someone who delved deeply into philosophy. There were dozens of science fiction paper backs, a few biographies of circus performers like the Wallendas and some old high school year books which he was just about to look through when the soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Come in." It was Wayne.

"'Settling in?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Is there anything you need?"

He was at a loss. It seemed like everything known to man was probably in this room so, aside from his memory, he was sure he could cope with the place but the man was trying and deserved an answer, "Like what?"

Wayne seemed stiff, uncomfortable. "I don't know, is there anything you can't find in here?"

He decided to cut to the chase, the niceties could come later. "Do you know why I know who Superman is, his real name? Do you know him or something?"

"We've worked together for a number of years and have mutual friends. You've known him since you were nine years old and he's very fond of you, 'treats you like you're a member of his family."

"Really?" Superman? Holy crap, how cool was that? "What do you mean that you work together? What work? And why would he trust you and me—a kid—with his secret identity? Isn't that supposed to be like top secret?"

Wayne seemed uncomfortable with that. "That's complicated and we'll get to it but let's start with easier questions, okay?"

Annoyed, Dick didn't push it for now. "Why do I live here? I think someone said that you adopted me; why? I get it was probably because my folks (he glanced at the framed photo) are either dead or bad parents but why you?"

"Your parents were aerialists, so were you. The show you all worked for was targeted by organized crime in a protection scheme. Your parents were the first accident, I saw it happen, was at the show and..."

"Felt sorry for me?"

"And thought I could help and understand what you were going through; my parents were killed when I was about the same age."

"What age?"

"You were nine."

Dick nodded, it made sense. "And I've been here ever since?"

"Yes, in this room and you decided on the décor as well. You went to college for a semester but it didn't take. You've been living in Bludhaven the last few months, waiting to test for their police department."

He didn't like that he was treating what should have been the pivotal moment in his life like a movie he hadn't seen (and he should remember something like that, he should remember _them, _they looked like nice people) but it made sense that he might channel it into wanting to avenge their deaths by being a cop. "I want to be a cop? Because of my parents being murdered?"

"More or less, yes. That's the short version, but it's accurate."

"Who's the old guy?"

"Alfred Pennyworth and don't refer to him like that. He raised us both, he's the best thing here and you'll treat him with respect no matter what you've been through the last few weeks, is that understood?"

"Yeah, sure. 'Sorry. So does he work here?"

Wayne's small temper tantrum was over but an edge had crept into his voice. "He's worked for my family for over thirty years, yes. He's technically the butler but he's my right hand—and yours, too. He'd lay down his life for either of us if he needed to and I'd do the same for him."

Dick held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I get it. Lay off Alfred. So, 'you married, have any kids or anyone I should know about?"

"Never been married, no kids, no." He didn't like that he was getting a little testy when he knew Dick needed to feel safe and made comfortable, maybe a change of subject would defuse things a little. "Dinner should be about ready, why don't we head downstairs and I'll show you around a little. Maybe something will strike a cord."

"Sure, fine."

"And I've arranged for a family friend, a doctor who's known you since the first day you came here, to come over and check to make sure that you're all right physically. Leslie Thompkins, you like her and she's as good as they come. She'll be here after dinner."

"You don't waste time, do you?"

* * *

Dinner was strained, which surprised no one.

"I've made all your favorites, young sir, so do eat up. After what you've been through I would think you'd be famished."

"Thank you." He looked at the loaded plate, at the steak, two baked potatoes, con on the cob and a large stein of some kind of no doubt imported beer. It was overwhelming and he felt nauseous at the thought of eating it all.

"And be sure to save room for desert, chocolate cake, just as you love it; Ala mode." The man withdrew, practically bowing on his way out. Dick wondered if this was to be expected every meal or if this was just in honor of the prodigal's return.

They were trying, God knew they were all trying here. He spoke to Bruce as he sliced a piece of meat. "What else do I like, aside from enough food for a small African village?"

"You're one of the top gymnasts on the planet; I think you're currently ranked about number three."

"I'm like on the national team?"

"No, but you have a standing offer to join whenever you want. There have also been similar offers from the coaches from Russia, Romania, Germany, Belarus and, I think China."

"Seriously?"

"Um-hmm. You're really quite good."

"No shit? Cool." He slathered more butter on his potatoes. "So what's the complication about you and Superman knowing each other. You said we'd get to it."

"And we will, but not yet."

"Why not?"

"I don't think you're ready." He saw the dark look. "We will get into it, but I want to make sure that the doctor is happy with your progress first."

"'Must be something major for you to be this paranoid but whatever. Do I have any friends? Seeing someone besides you and the old...Alfred might help."

"It might and as soon as..."

"I know, as soon as the doctor okay's it we'll get to it."

The rest of the dinner passed in relative silence.

* * *

Dr. Thompkins was as advertised, professional, no-nonsense and clearly personally concerned about him as she went through a thorough examination up in his room. "You've had worse and I suspect that you'll recover from this round as well. Physically you're in good shape, a little thin but Alfred will take care of that soon enough. As for your memory, it will come back by itself, the key is not to push it. The more you obsess over it, the more you worry, the more it usually blocks."

"So just try to let it go and one of these days I'll wake up and the light will be back on?"

"Something like that. It could take a few months, it could take a year, but in almost every case like this, it does come back."

"All of it or will there be gaps?"

"There's no way top tell yet. Some things may take longer than others, it's not uncommon but you should be close to where you were before you were knocked over the head."

"Great."

She softened her demeanor, "You're one of the toughest people I know, Dick; you always have been and this won't be any different. You're going to come out of this even stronger than you were before this happened and, knowing you, you'll find a way to use this to your advantage—mark my words." She squeezed his shoulder for emphasis and he was grateful for the human contact, something he realized with a rush of feeling that he'd been craving.

"Do I have any friends? Bruce said I do but..."

"Of course you do, good friends, close friends who would do anything for you and who have been looking for you since you went missing."

"Could I see them?"

"I don;t see any reason why not but I do suggest that you wait at least until tomorrow. You've been through a lot and it's been quite a day, even for you. Get a good rest and then see, all right?" She was closing her bag, finished with her exam. "And you know that if you need me for anything, even if it's just to talk, all you have to do is call."

"Thank you, you've been very kind."

It was in that simple, polite comment that she realized just how far away the young man they knew really was. No hug, not enthusiasm, no real joy; Dick was still lost.

* * *

Donna almost squealed, barely restraining herself. "He's back! They found him in Bludhaven and he's back at the Manor and he's all right except Bruce said that he has some trouble remembering—but that should pass." She hugged Wally in her excitement, twirling herself around him and laughing.

Roy's laughter wasn't nearly as innocent. "Grayson's gone for almost a month and now he's pleading amnesia? Oh, man—she must have been _something _for him to pull that old chestnut."

"You think he was, you know, with some girl?"

"Wally, my man, this is the Boy Wonder we're talking about. What? You thought he was being held captive by some crime lord, maybe under alien mind control? Our boy Nightwing was getting himself some serious..." The last was lost as Speedy started laughing again. "So much for innocence lost."

"God, Roy, you're such an ass."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Part Ten**

It took three days before Bruce (and Leslie) would allow the old Titans to stop by and then only Donna was allowed in so that Dick wouldn't feel overwhelmed.

Alfred opened the door for her as she stepped into the main foyer. "Miss Donna, it's always such a pleasure to see you and I know Master Richard will be so pleased. He's been so full of questions and confusion that I'm sure you'll be just what the doctor ordered."

"I hope so, Alfred but you're sweet to say that. Is he up in his room?"

"I believe he's out on the rear terrace, if you'd be so good as to follow me." He indicated the young man sitting on one of the chaises over looking the view of Gotham in the distance, seemingly lost in thought.

"Dick, how are you feeling?" She made a point of letting him hear her approach so he wouldn't be startled. "It's me, Donna." She noticed that he seemed to project a combination of wariness and reserve with a touch of nervousness thrown in.

He studied her for a moment then broke out a small smile. "We know each other? They told me that an old friend of mine was coming over today."

She nodded. "We've known one another since we were twelve."

"...How did we meet?"

"Through Bruce and Diana; she's my older sister."

"Is she one of Bruce's girlfriends?"

"...They work together."

"At Wayne Enterprises?"

She wasn't sure what to answer, she'd been warned that he didn't know anything about any of his hero activities, or those of his friends. He'd forgotten about Batman and Robin, Nightwing and the Titans. "I'm not sure, I know they've been friends for a long time."

"That was evasive." He smiled his old smile, the one he used when Roy was trying to scam him about something. "It's okay, everyone's still walking softly around me, trying not to upset me. I assume you were briefed?"

"Well, sort of, yes." She sat down next to him. "How are you, are you all right?" He gave her a look. "I mean, do you still have headaches or anything?"

"No, I feel fine, 'just can't remember anything. I think Alfred was ready to draw me a map to find my socks."

She laughed and took his hand, which he allowed for a moment before gently pulling his arm away. "That sounded like you."

"We're friends? Did we ever date?"

"No, just friends."

"Why not?"

"I was dating someone else and I guess, I always thought that we were more like brother and sister and avoided all those romantic complications." She laughed again. "I used to think about it, though, once in a while, anyway. You were always much nicer than a lot of the men I dated."

"Yeah, well you know what they say about where nice guys finish—slammed on the head and unable to remember where the band-aids are." It was said without humor. "So, are you going to tell me the real story or are you going to toe the company line about us just being old friends? I have amnesia, not stupidity." It was a flash if the old Robin, cutting to the chase and not wanting his time wasted with BS and games.

"We're old friends, you're one of my best friends and I love you like a brother, I always have. That's the real story, Dick."

"It's probably part of it, just like my living here since my parents died id part of the story; it's the elephant in the room everyone's avoiding."

"It'll all come out, I promise."

"So there _is _more? It must be major for everyone to be this paranoid about how I'll react, What, am I wanted for murder or something?"

She shook her head and tried for light and happy. "Nothing like that, you're one of the good guys."

"You mean about my wanting to be a cop?" He had the look on his face she'd seen too often when he was on the trail of some case. He wouldn't let this go.

Dammit, Dick was too smart and he was putting the pieces together, it was just a matter of time.

"Donna, that can't be it, there's something more, something much bigger than that, isn't there?"

"I can't, Bruce made me promise, not until they think you're ready. C'mon, Dick, it's for your own good."

"You also said you're one of my closest friends. The more pieces I have, the clearly the picture is."

"Dick—Bruce will tell you when he thinks you're ready, he will."

"And you won't?"

"It's not that, I can't. C'mon, you know we're just trying to make this easier for you."

"Well, you're failing." He leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed for a second. "If you don't mind, I'm tired."

"Dick, please don't be angry."

His eyes flicked over to her, she'd said exactly the wrong thing. "And I'm also tired of everyone deciding what's best for me. Thank you for stopping by."

With no choice, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. "I'll come back soon, tomorrow." He simply nodded in response.

On the way out she paused in the opened door of Bruce's study. "You have to tell him. You _have _to."

* * *

"Miss Donna is right, you know, Master Richard is far to astute to be kept in the dark for long."

"He's not ready yet."

"I'm afraid that I must disagree, Master Bruce. He is quite ready and this delay is simply frustrating him and distracting him from concentrating on getting well."

"I'll tell him when he's ready, Alfred. It's for his own good."

* * *

Clark stopped by later that afternoon, unannounced. "I apologize but I was hoping that I could see how he's doing."

Alfred nodded, almost smiling. "I'm sure that he'll be thrilled for your visit, sir, if you'll follow me."

"How is he doing?"

"Physically, he seems almost his old self."

"And his memory?"

"...Not yet."

They found Dick in the gym located near the indoor pool, he was trying some basic moves on the side horse when they walked in, Alfred leaving then to their privacy.

"Dick, it's good to see you looking so healthy, you're making real progress."

He hopped down from the apparatus, nodding at Clark and headed over to the parallels, boosting himself up and starting some elementary swinging moves. "Thanks for coming."

"I told you I would."

"Why do I know your secret identity?"

Clark hesitated, unusual for him, but he wasn't sure what to tell Dick. If he told the truth it might lead to his memory coming back but it could also confuse him and Bruce would be furious, either way—not that he cared all that much. Bruce could generally be counted on to be furious about something. "I—don't know if this is the right time for this."

Dick kept moving through the light workout on the bars without pause. "Then thanks for coming but I'm sure you must have someplace you need to be."

"Dick, please."

"I'll be in touch."

* * *

Later that night, around eleven, Dick made his way down to the main study, Bruce's private area. The man spent a lot of time in the room, door closed and he suspected that there was more going on than writing checks or business letters.

Poking around he didn't see anything to raise his suspicions at first. Everything seemed like standard stuff, large fireplace, a computer, rows of expensive books on shelves, leather furniture, probably dating back to the Civil War.

There was something here, he was sure of it, a half remembered fragment of a memory or a dream; there was something about this room.

He kept searching, moving this and that, studying the lamps for signs of tampering, checking the TV and music wall, it all seemed normal.

The clock. There was something about the old grandfather's clock, he was sure of it.

It was old and massive, standing at least seven feet tall and it ticked loudly in the carpeted silence.

Something about the clock.

The clock.

The clock was the key.

No. The clock was the door.

Hat's when he saw it, the slightest mark on the rug, as if a vacuum had passed over the pile and pulled it into a different direction than the rest if the fibers, the barest displacement, just enough to catch the light with a slight shadow.

The clock moved. It was the door to—something.

He pulled it but it refused to move. It was locked somehow. There was a release somewhere. He looked around the room again and then, unerringly, went to the expensive set of pens in their holder on the mahogany desk. Moving on pen, the left one, he pulled it down like a lever,a hidden spring returning it to it's upright position automatically as the heavy clock swung aside revealing a set of stone steps leading down to—something.

* * *

Three hours later the car roared into position in the Batcave, Batman opened the door out, startled by Dick sitting in the chair at the computer console, "So I take it that this is the big secret?"

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Part Eleven**

**Conclusion**

"Let me guess; you're Batman and I know about Clark because you know each other from the Justice League. Oh, and that would have made me the ass end of Batman and Robin when I was a kid and now—I'm going to go out on a limb here—I'm Nightwing, right?"

"Yes on all counts." He pushed back the cowl. "Does this also mean that you have your memory back?"

"No, but as I've mentioned before, amnesia doesn't mean stupid and I suspect that things may start coming back to me pretty soon. And Donna is probably Wonder Girl, which would make her sister Wonder Woman, right again?"

"Are you angry because I waited to tell you or is there some other reason?"

Dick stood up and turned towards the stairs. "No, this is it." He started up but stopped and turned when he was maybe on the tenth step. "And all the scars on my body, these are all from crime fighting, 'being a vigilante?"

"Most of them, yes."

He nodded and left, his footsteps echoing in the cave and finally fading away into silence.

* * *

The next morning Alfred became concerned when the young master didn't appear for breakfast and a search proved him to be neither in his suite or anywhere in the house. Concerned, he called the on property security people who informed him that Mr. Grayson was walking on the far path along the cliff with Master Tim. They were just heading back to the main grounds and should be back at the house in about twenty minutes.

By the time they came through the door almost forty minutes had gone by but Alfred's relief overrode anything else, assuming that the two young men had been getting reacquainted.

"I was wondering when the cat might drag you two in for some substanance, if you'll be so kind as to make yourselves presentable I shall have your meals ready when you're finished."

Soon enough the two were seated in the kitchen and talking quietly between themselves.

"You know how he is, he was trying to make it easier for you."

"That wasn't his call to make. I'm an adult, injured or not. I can make my own decisions regarding my own life."

"Well, yeah, but he's still Bruce and you're not going to change that. Besides, without your memory you don't have the pieces you'd need to make an informed decision. 'Suck it up."

Dick didn't respond but his demeanor made it clear he wasn't impressed by Tim's logic and the rest of the meal was largely eaten in silence until, "Is Bruce here?"

"I'm afraid that he was called to a Board meeting at the office, however I expect him back this afternoon."

Dick nodded an acknowledgment. "I'm going for another walk." Tim started to get up to go along but was stopped. "Alone."

He spent the next four hours walking the grounds, stopping by the stables to pat the horse's noses, sit by the tennis court for a while and finally study the waves breaking against the cliffs. Alfred watched when he could, when the security cameras could get him in view and wondered if he was remembering or not.

It was a lot to deal with and it would be a long road back, made more difficult by the many complications in his life. His existence wasn't an easy one, nor simple and it could be a long time before all the details made sense to him again. "I can only hope he handles this as easily as he seemed to handle the other hardships life has handed him over the years."

* * *

When he came back into the house Dick made a couple of calls. Within the hour both Roy Harper and Wally West were at the front door and shown up to his room by Alfred, the door firmly closing behind him as he left, leaving the three young men with their privacy.

"I want to ask you two a question and I want you to answer honestly."

"Of course."

"You got it."

"Okay, my memory isn't completely back but it's getting there; I want to know why you do this."

Wally looked confused. "Dick?"

"We're not adolescents anymore, this isn't a 'gee-whiz' kind of thing now. We get hurt, some of us have been killed. There are other ways we could help, other avenues we could use to stop criminals."

Wally spoke up with the obvious. "Because we're good at it and we make a difference." He exchanged a look with Roy, this wasn't the Grayson they'd known for a decade.

"No, why do the whole costumed, superhero thing? It's not for the money, I get that, is it for the ego? If we want to stop bad guys, why not just be cops?"

Roy, for once, was serious, no snark, no sarcasm. "Well sure, part of it's ego, yeah. Why else would we dress up and use code names? It's cops and robbers taken to the highest possible degree but there's more to it than that. It's knowing that we, all of us, have certain abilities, gifts if you want to call them that, we can do stuff no one else can and we can do it better; we make a difference and, okay, this may be ego, but we act as role models and inspiration."

"Yeah, 'sounds like ego to me, Harper. And we all have personal reasons to do this, I get that, too. Some of us were crime victims, some have relatives in the business, some use it as a hobby or a career. Fine." Dick paused while he marshaled his words.

"What's the 'but' here? You're not convinced."

"...I don't think I want to die for this. Maybe it's selfish but in a real way I just got my life back; I don't want to lose it. There's a lot of things I want to do, years, decades of things I still want to do."

All three friends knew Dick was serious, baring his soul and telling the truth and Roy broke the lull that had descended.

"Then you have some choices to make."

* * *

Things remained fairly status quo for the next few days. Dick would take long walks through the grounds, usually alone but occasionally with Tim and, once with Alfred. There would be a little small talk about the views or to remark on a deer in the woods but mostly they would walk or hike in silence. The other members of the household realized that Dick was slowly coming to a decision and allowed him the luxury of taking his time to be sure that, whatever it was, would be right for him, not made in haste or superficially.

He spent time alone in his room. He saw his old friends behind closed doors, made calls and would be on his computer for hours.

Wayne Manor seemed to be holding it's breath until finally, late one night down in the cave;

"I've been thinking, 'made a decision."

Batman just waited, immobile.

"I don't want this. I don't want to be shot at, threatened, I want a life on my own terms, not someone else's. I don't want to die before I'm thirty."

Not a muscle moved.

"I've been in contact with some old friends, from before, old family friends."

Batman didn't seem to be breathing, he was a statue.

"I'm going back there. I've been offered a headliner spot with Barnum and Bailey, I'm taking it. It's what I want to do."

The living statue registered what he'd just heard but the reaction was almost imperceptible.

"I'm grateful for what you've done for me and everything you've allowed me to do and see—for letting me find closure when my parents died but now I want a normal life. I was raised to perform and it's what I want to do, it's what I was born for and it's in my blood—literally and figuratively."

"You're running away to join the circus?" The comment was sarcastic, dripped disdain.

Dick didn't bother answering, he'd said what he wanted.

"You're throwing away everything you've built, years of training and hard work, the good will of the public, the hundreds of collars and arrests you've made, all the good you would do that's still ahead of you? This is unacceptable."

"You have the Justice League and you have Tim; Batman still has a Robin. You'll all be fine."

"No. You're an integral member of the community, you have obligations to the rest of us working. You have an obligation to me." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

"It's not your decision."

"You haven't recovered your full memory yet, at least wait until you have a full grasp of what your life was before..."

"I have enough of a grasp, Bruce. I'm not going to change my mind."

The cowl was pushed back, the anger and disappointment obvious. "This isn't like you, this is the injury."

"No, this is me, Bruce. This (he gestured around the to the dark recesses of the cave) isn't me, not now." Ha had a sad smile on his face, one Bruce rarely saw. "I want to fly, I don't want to live in a cave." His smile changed a bit a little at his own overblown hyperbole. "I was going to leave earlier but I wanted to tell you in person and I wanted to tell you how grateful I am for..."

"Don't bother."

"...And how much I want to still be able to consider the Manor my home and the people in it my family."

No reaction other than Batman replacing his cowl and getting back in the car. The engine started, the tires squealed as he left.

Upstairs Dick loaded the single bag onto the back of his bike, the custom Ninja which had been his last birthday present. Alfred was asleep but he'd read the letter he'd left, thanking him, asking if he could come by for dinner in two weeks when everyone had a chance to calm down. Much as he loved the old man and remembered the endless kindnesses he'd received at his hands, he now saw him as an enabler and believed it best for himself to limit the man's influence.

He'd make his peace with Tim as well, knowing the boy would see his leaving as a betrayal but would, with any luck, understand as time went by.

At the end of the three mile driveway he went through the gates, waiting a moment to listen to the solid clank as they closed behind him then turned left onto the main road, smiling and feeling free.

He was contracted to join the circus in three days for their dates in Chicago.

3/30/10

44


	12. Chapter 12

**  
John Doe **

**Epilogue**

Things remained as they were for the next two years; Dick Grayson had signed on with another troupe of aerialists, old family friends was a headliner touring first the European and then the US circuit with Barnum and Bailey, making a point of checking in every few weeks to let everyone know that he was all right, happy and enjoying himself back in his childhood profession. He also made it clear that he still considered the Manor his 'home' and would be back when he could, but for now, he was content.

"It's just like I remember it, Alf. It's incredible how much it hasn't changed—I mean, sure, the acts come and go but that's the nature of the beast. The feeling of being here, hanging around backstage, eating with everyone all together, seeing the kids growing up here, just like I did; it's like I never left."

"So I take it that you're making friends and taking care of yourself?"

"Well, yeah, no problem. You know how it is, 'one a carny, always a carny'. It's like riding a bike or something, you never forget. Hey, are Bruce or Tim around?"

"I'm afraid that they're 'out' but I'll be sure that they know that you called and were asking for them."

"Okay, great. Take care of yourself, and I'll call soon."

"Please be sure that you do and be careful."

"'Always am, 'later."

The calls always left Alfred a little sad. He knew Dick seemed genuinely happy but, aside from simply missing the lad, he couldn't help but wonder of he ever regretted walking away from the life he'd had in Gotham and later, Bludhaven. But it was the boy's choice to make and so there it stood.

"Good evening, sir. Master Dick called earlier, he sounded well and will be in touch."

"Where is he this week?"

"Santa Fe, then Phoenix."

Bruce nodded. In fact he knew Dick's touring schedule but Alfred expected him to ask and so he obliged.

"Is anything new on his end?"

"Not that he mentioned, no, aside from one of the elephants delivering a healthy son. I believe the mother was that old elephant he was so fond of when he was a child."

Bruce nodded, leave it to Dick to have a favorite elephant and keep up with her over the years. "Did he say anything about where he plans to spend the holidays?"

"It didn't come up in conversation, but he did say that he'd be calling soon. I do hope that..."

"I do too, Alfred and he knows. He'll do what he can."

"Yes, of course he will."

* * *

Inevitably Nightwing's disappearance raised questions. As soon as his absence was noticed the media took hold of the story like the proverbial dog with a bone and refused to allow it to die. There was an initial flurry of stories and articles asking where he might be, whether or not he was alive or dead then finally whether or not he might still be active under a different alias and wearing a new costume.

No one officially commented one way or another and so the questions remained as the months and finally the years went by.

The articles weren't as frequent as in the beginning of is absence but they were still a regular feature in some of the more prurient parts of the press community.

"Wanted Dead or Alive: Nightwing"

"Two Years Still Missing"

"I'll Always Love Him"

"Nightwing Sighting At Graceland"

"Why The Coverup?"

Every year when the season of his disappearance rolled around there would be another flurry of attention, only to have it die down as soon as the next lurid headline came along. The people who mattered knew and as for the rest, they didn't need to know.

It was time for the questions to come around again and they'd be ignored this year like they had been all along. Nothing would change and in a few days they would die down again. It was predictable and expected.

* * *

Relaxing backstage after the three o'clock matinee, the last Flying Grayson was sitting in a folding chair, his feet resting on bale of hay, reading a magazine.

"Hey, Dick, how's the shoulder?"

"Hey Greg, it's okay. How's your wrist?"

"Getting better. 'Any plans for the hiatus? 'Goin' down to Florida?"

"'Probably going back to Gotham for a while to check in and then, I don't know, maybe hang out with some friends."

Greg and Dick had been kids together back in the old days with Haley, back when Dick was part of his parent's act and Greg was still still learning the ropes of being a clown. They'd lost touch after, well, after what happened and Dick left but had picked up their friendship the same afternoon he showed up to fly again. It was a good thing and right now they were in Tucson, Arizona, the last stop before the winter break, which was also a good thing. They'd have two months off before training and rehearsals started for the Spring Tour which would take some of them through a sweep of Canada and the rest over to Europe.

"'You hear the rumors that a bunch of dates have been cancelled? They're blaming it on the crappy economy. 'Not good."

No, it was bad. "You know how it is, whenever money is tight the first thing to get cut are the arts—museums attendance goes down, shows can't fill the seats, no one buys paintings. It'll pass, it always does."

"Yeah, well I don't know how many of us are going to be able to hang on until this turns around. I heard they're talking layoffs and cutting pay. Damn, it's not like any of us are getting rich doing this and if they cut back..."

Dick nodded; the circus was hurting and he'd heard the same rumors and more; he'd been called into the office a couple of weeks ago, asking if he would accept a twenty percent pay cut. He knew it wasn't a bluff or management just being cheap, he could see the unsold seats and the audience sections going begging for customers, the schedule was lighter than usual, fewer shows and not as many stops on the tour. The circus was hurting.

"Wait and see, I guess, it's all we can do."

"I guess. C'mon, let's get some food."

"'Sounds good."

* * *

Dick spent Christmas at the Manor, happy to be back with the family and to have some time to see the Titans, now scattered and only coming together when there was a case or something which they all needed or wanted to be involved with.

There was the usual pile of presents and the usual round of parties which he attended with less annoyance than was his custom, perhaps verifying the old adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Finally, the evening before he was due to leave, he walked down to the cave, a place he'd been avoiding. It was odd, he'd spent more hours than he could count there over the years but now he felt like a stranger, a feeling he didn't have up in the house itself.

Bruce was working at the computer, Tim was at a movie with his friends, Alfred was out with Leslie Thompkins and the night was a quiet one.

"Everything going all right?"

"Yes, great, in fact. We have some new ideas for the new season and it should be a good tour."

"Europe this time, right?"

Of course it was and Bruce knew it but, "Yes, we kick off in London and then four months around most of the continent." A silence descended, not surprising, but unnecessary. "What is it you're not asking me?"

A moment then, "Is this really enough for you?"

"Performing? It's why I was born."

"You didn't answer my question."

With great patience he answered with an even voice and no sarcasm. "Yes, it's enough, at least for now. I'm doing something I love and which I'm good at. Yes, it's enough."

Bruce accepted the answer, at least on the surface and without further probing but he'd heard what Dick hadn't said and it concerned him.

* * *

Time rolled by Dick saw the Titans in New York, feeling a little like the same uncomfortable interloper he'd been in the cave then flew down to the winter circus community in Florida to work on new tricks and take some meetings with management to discuss some ideas he'd had.

The conversation he'd had with Greg before the break was a common one in all the various areas of the arts; illustrator's jobs were being supplanted by cut and paste photos, musicians found their work being replaced by recordings or single instrumentalists instead of groups, shows from New York to London to Paris closed for lack of audience and museums were forced to cut the number and size of their exhibits or close on certain days to save salaries.

Barnum and Bailey cut stops on their tours and asked the performers to accept more pay cuts. Office staff were let go and everyone was worried if not outright frightened.

Finally the letter went out to all the members of the extended circus family;

"_As you as all aware, these are challenging times for our industry..._

_...After much thought and consideration we've decided to make some fundamental and exciting changes to our view of entertainment and of how to showcase our talented performers. We've asked a member of our own to help us in setting a new path for the great tradition we're all proud to be part of and which will be incorporated into our productions in the coming months._

_This is an exciting time for us and we look forward to beginning rehearsals next month."_

Opinions regarding the new directions ran the gamut from disbelief to head shaking to sighs of relief and heartfelt 'Thank God' and 'Finally!' Whether or not it would help or hinder was still up in the air but would be known in a few months..

_* * *_

Three months later they were finished playing Berlin, the last show of the weekend was over and the roustabouts would be mid-strike by now. Circuses no longer used tents, or rarely, unless the show was a seriously small scale affair; they performed in sports arenas for the most part, the larger the show the larger the venue. Currently they were playing 5,000 to 10,000 seaters and, on a good date, selling around fifty thousand tickets for a week's run in the larger cities. It was decent and the changes in the production seemed to be a large part of the reason. As soon as the train was packed they'd on their way to Munich for a week and hopes were high that the box office would stay busy.

There were grumbles that they were channeling Cirque du Soleil but the proof was in the money and it was better than they'd seen in years.

* * *

The figure, wearing solid black, harlequin mask in place, was perched on a gargoyle watching the men loading boxes into a truck in the alley below him. Shooting off a jump line he surprised them and, with that advantage added to his martial arts ability, had the seven contained in minutes, the art theft thwarted. An anonymous call to the local politzei and the matter was closed.

* * *

"I can't believe this, he's actually happy just being a circus performer. Christ!"

"Master Bruce, must I remind you that it was what he was doing when you first discovered him and is what he was born to."

"Oh, for the love of God, he was nine years old—after everything he's been trained for, all the things he could be doing."

"It's his life and his choice, after all."

"Maybe he'll get over it."

Alfred knew better than to let the tirade build. "Yes, perhaps." The young master was happy, fulfilled and that was more than enough.

* * *

In Munich the crowds were, again, good. Word of the changes to the show, the addition of a kind of , sort of storyline involving the acts to help move things along, the lighting effects, the new costumes and music made a tremendous, upgrading the modernizing the show. Granted it was more Vegas than traditional, but it was getting the crowds to come and that was the bottom line. Without revenue they'd have to downsize or close, by embracing the realities of what the audience wanted to see they could stay alive.

Their run was extended two extra days, the most they could squeeze out and still, barely, make their next date in Salzburg.

"Damn, it's good to be popular!"

"Like that's ever been a problem for you, Greg."

"I'm not just talking about my social life, Grayson, I'm talking about butts in the seats."

"Yeah, the houses have been looking pretty healthy lately."

"It's a good thing and, y'know, the word's out about how most of this was your idea."

"Not really."

"Uh-huh."

"Greg..."

"'Drop it', I know. Mister Light Under the Bushel, an odd trait for someone who grew up in a circus but, whatever. So, I was thinking that I might take in some of the sights this afternoon, check out the place, 'wanna come?"

"Sounds good for a while but I have something lined up for tonight."

"'Meeting the local frauleins, are you?"

Dick didn't actually roll his eyes but somehow gave the impression anyway. "I stink from rehearsal, I'm ready as soon as I take a shower."

"'Sounds like a plan."

Later that night, around two in the morning, a man dressed entirely in black and wearing a small mask prevented some local thugs from stealing the week's payroll from the restaurant on top of the hill which overlooked the city. Die Schloss, located in an ancient castle and known for it's terrible and overpriced food geared to the tourists, it was a landmark.

An anonymous call to the local police let them know that the would be thieves were subdued and ready for transport.

* * *

Another month of touring passed without incident and the show was playing Barcelona. It was a good run, ticket sales were good and on opening night King Carlos and Queen Sophia attended with their grandchildren as part of a charity fund raiser. The show went well and afterward the main performers were introduced to their Majesties backstage. It was, despite the fun of the occasion, a standard end to a work day for the cast members and one they were, for the most part, more than happy to be done with. It had been a long tour and everyone was tired; making time for yet another royal meet and greet meant that it would be at least an extra hour or so before they could call their time their own.

"Hey Dick, Jacques and Fred and I are going to an after hours club, you in?"

"Maybe next time, Greg, I'm beat."

"You don't know what you're missing."

"No doubt. 'Later."

It was 'later' that the man dressed in black spandex prevented the kidnapping of Queen Sophia and the theft of her diamond tiara and matching necklace.

Leaving Her Majesty's bed chamber and landing lightly as he scaled the palace wall to leave, he was just mounting his motorcycle when his way was blocked.

"I was hoping that I would run into you while you were working."

He didn't bother to dodge at being found out. "Hello Kal." Nor was he surprised.

"You're doing well, making things work for you. I'm proud of you."

Whoa, the lecture he'd half expected wasn't happening. He smiled, always a little disbelieving when he received praise from Superman. "Thank you."

"Everything under control?"

"Yes, everything's good."

"Does he know?"

"I appreciate if you wouldn't tell him—hey, he really doesn't know?"

"'Hasn't said anything to me or anyone else in the JLA."

"Really? He knows everything."

Kal's turn to smile. "He likes to think he does, anyway." He prepared to leave. "If you're all right, I've some things to do."

"Go, I'm fine." Then, "Hey, Kal, don't say anything to him, okay?"

Superman contained a quiet laugh. "Mypleasure. Take care." Flying back home, crossing the Atlantic he let the laugh out. This was too good; Bruce could stay in the dark until Dick was ready to tell him; if that ever happened. In the meantime, he'd keep an eye on the young man.

4/4/10

51


End file.
